


The Lights

by pink_ink



Series: Four Eight [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, Jealous!Mickey, M/M, Mickey POV, Mickey swearing like Mickey does, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-25
Updated: 2014-11-25
Packaged: 2018-02-26 23:13:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2669948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pink_ink/pseuds/pink_ink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey POV, 4x08</p>
<p>"His eyes are sensitive to light. Like, a lot. It was something he fuckin knew about himself, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. Opening the door in summer, he’d sneeze walking into the sun. He’d learned to stifle it most of the time, face swinging away from whoeverthefuck, But if he was alone, he’d let it rip.</p>
<p>If he could, he’d make sure there wasn’t any sensitive part of him left."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lights

It had taken Mickey’s eyes a while to adjust to all the fuckin faggy lights flashing around. He thought he’d adjust faster. He was just here. He’s been here too much, already. 

His eyes are sensitive to light. Like, a lot. It was something he fuckin knew about himself, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. Opening the door in summer, he’d sneeze walking into the sun. He’d learned to stifle it most of the time, face swinging away from whoeverthefuck. But if he was alone, he’d let it rip.

If he could, he’d make sure there wasn’t any sensitive part of him left. His mom had called him that, before she was gone. _Sensitive._ She’d even called him _my sweet boy_ once or twice (okay, maybe more than that.) He’d squinch his eyes shut after she said it. He still didn’t know why, but she never make him feel like he was weak with all of that. 

When Terry wasn’t looking, she’d nudge closer to Mickey. She knew him. Knew he didn’t like people in his space. Knew he needed room. He was a Milkovich. They all needed room. They were all too quick to act, and even quicker to react. But Mickey? He needed even more. He needed more so he wouldn’t flinch, wouldn’t scare off like some fuckin bunny. He hated that, too. Weak piece of shit. That was another thing he had to punch away from himself, with both hands, after she was gone. 

If being sensitive meant being weak, that meant he’d punch that much harder, move that much faster. If there was anything to be said about Mickey Milkovich, he wasn’t fucking weak. He may like the smooth, heavy weight of Ian’s dick in his mouth, but he’s not fuckin’ weak. Not everyone could handle that fuckin cock. Mickey could. 

A spotlight swings fast against the floor in front of Ian. Wait, who the fuck was that guy? Was Ian going to say something to that guy? He’s almost leaning on the fucking platform, Ian. He can’t do that. Where’s the fucking security? The guy leans back, finally. Good. Ian circles away from him, eventually, shoots Mickey a smirk over his shoulder. Mickey can feel his shoulders drop as he exhales.

 

Last night, in his room, Ian had told him what to do, what he wanted. For a minute, despite the warmth in his pants, Mickey wanted to punch him. Punch him for demanding something like that, so soon after Mickey found him, _after pulling you out of the goddamn fucking snow, Gallagher! You think I liked carrying your giant body over an icy sidewalk? Fuck no. Now you’re telling me I gotta do this shit?_

But, come on. He liked doing that shit. No, _loved_ doing that shit. He was relieved as hell to drop to his knees, yank Ian’s pants apart, and get to it. He couldn’t move fast enough. That hot, perfect cock sliding into his soft mouth. He groaned around it and Ian’s head flew back. Ian started talking--always fucking talking, this guy--but the words and grunts went straight to Mickey’s crotch. He could feel his fucking _asshole_ twitch against his heels, already eager to relax for him again. Just from sucking that cock. Just from Ian, in general. Fuck. There’s nothing gayer sounding than that. 

 

Except this. Except “The Fairy Tale.” Jesus. Fairy Tail with those booty shorts. Mickey rolls his eyes. Kudos to whoever thought that shit up. Slow clap bravo, assholes. He’s surprised it’s not just called Gay Ass. Everywhere Mickey looks its guys thrusting around, leading the way with their dicks. Leading the way with their dicks to Ian’s platform, watching his ass, his bulge, his thighs. 

 

His thighs. God. Those thighs, clenching around his head last night as Mickey pulled him further in. His thighs shaking. “Oh _God_ MIckey. Missed this so much.” Mickey’s hands were shaking, too, wound around the outside of Ian’s thighs, palming against his hips, mind a blur of yes and yes and yes. _I thought you were gone, thought I’d never…_ and Mickey humming, relieved. 

Shaking, shaking. Mickey could hardly hear as Ian’s thighs pressed harder, against Mickey’s ears. Then a long, low, _“Fuuuuuck”_ he could feel more than hear, and then Ian’s salt pouring down Mickey’s throat. His cock and come pushed so deep his stomach clenched, fast, just once, twice, maybe. 

“Just a little out of practice, Mick. We’re gonna fuckin fix that.” Ian breathed it louder than he said it, hand still soft but sure on Mickey’s head. Mickey groaned at the words, hand pressing against his own dick. Ian’s hips rose a little at the vibration, moving away, _sensitive._ Good. Mickey let that fuckin perfect cock drop from his mouth, fingers swiping quickly against his lips, covered the hint of a smile. He sat further back on his heels, looked at the cuff of his sweater. He couldn’t look up. Not yet. 

Ian leaned forward, tipping Mickey’s chin up. Mickey tried to dart his eyes away, his tongue curving quickly to the side inside his mouth. His mouth tasted like Ian. He swallowed. “Hey,” Ian said. “Mickey, hey.” Mickey lets Ian’s other arm slide around him, pull him closer, pull him fully to his knees. God, they’re close. _How does he let him get so close?_

“Dick’s still out,” Mickey grunted, leaning back, eyes dropping to Ian’s lap the best he could with that fuckin freckled hand still under his fuckin chin.  
“S’ok. Not like anyone’s coming in here.”  
Mickey’s eyes met his, then. “But what if--”  
“Nope,” Ian said. “No if.”  
Mickey swallowed. Looked at Ian. Didn’t look away.  
“Mick, I missed you,” Ian said.  
Mickey let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. His knees ache, wobble. He sees Ian’s eyes flit quickly to his mouth. 

“I--” Mickey starts, then suddenly yanks back, quick as he can. He’s on his feet before he knows it, acting and reacting. “I gotta--”  
Ian’s shoved his dick in his pants and is on Mickey before he reaches the door, spinning him around, just rough enough to make his breath stutter a little. Ian’s eyes wide and still, something so still it made Mickey swallow hard. “No,” Ian said. “No, you don’t gotta.” 

The words flooded Mickey’s body, every inch around him filling up with Ian. Ian. Ian. And then. 

Then. Ian’s lips were on his, arm sliding around him again. Mickey tried to rock back, but Ian’s long-ass arm grabbed around him, holding him closer. Mickey made a tiny noise in his throat, mouth opening wider. Ian’s hand sliding up Mickey’s back to hold his head, pulling his body up higher to get into his mouth harder. Harder. Oh my god. Mickey’s arms anywhere he could reach, his hips crashing against Ian’s. _Closercloserohgodplease_ Mickey’s tongue in Ian’s mouth, making all these stupid noises, but fuck it. _Closer._ And Ian was. Mickey’s mind went white, eyes clenched shut, like he’s in the sun, about to sneeze. 

 

These stupid lights. Jesus. Every now and then Mickey has to shut his eyes to just stop all the pink and purple and blue bullshit. But now he can’t. He can’t because Ian won’t stop turning around and around, his arms pumping in the air, his body out there for just anyone to look at. It’s good when he’s facing Mickey. Even if Mickey doesn’t usually go for that shit, he certainly goes for Ian. 

Then Ian’s away again, turning toward some guy, pushing his hips up. Mickey sucks his drink back. He tells himself all the shit he’s been repeating all night, on a loop, like the beat in this fuckin song. _It’s about money. Mostly about money. It’s not like Mickey’s never done stupid shit for money._ He’s trying so hard, breathing. Breathing. Fuck. _These goddamn lights_ He has to look away again. 

When he looks back there’s that fuckin’ guy. Still. That fuckin guy. Ian’s moved even closer. The guy is _licking fucking money._ Money might be sweet, but it’s also fuckin filthy. 

Mickey can’t even breathe as the guy reaches toward Ian. _Mine._ The thought fast as a camera flash, blinding before he can pull back. There’s never been anything that’s his. Just his. _My boy, my sweet boy_ Mickey’s there before he means to be, because a Milkovich reacts like that, too fast. Mickey’s arm blocking the guy’s hand like he’s pushing somebody’s weak-ass punch off him so he can really punch back, not weak this time. Fuckin hard. Mickey’s fucking hard. 

 

Ian’s lips pressed and closed, hands sliding down, gripping Mickey’s hips as he pulled his lips away. Mickey felt his body rock back, eyes still shut, and Ian had to pop his giant fuckin hand onto his lower back to steady him. Breathing hard. His eyes fluttered open, trying to focus. Ian already looking at him. Eyes still wide, and so still. Almost too still. They stared into him, hard and deep and green. 

Mickey let out a shaky breath, leaning against the door. “That--”  
Ian interrupted. “That is what we need to be doing every fucking minute we’re alive.”  
Mickey rolled his eyes, trying not to smile. _Gallagher’s edge of drama. Then fine, he’s gonna serve it back._ “Coulda done without some of that Scarlett O’Hara bullshit, but sure.” 

Ian grinned, laughed just a bit too hard. Mickey looks quick at the floor. _Better not be fuckin laughing at him. Not his fault his mom liked that fuckin movie. Not his fault he just said “sure.”_  
Mickey crossed his arms, eyes hard, rolling. “What now? You gonna stay?” 

Ian slipped his hands under Mickey’s sweater. So close. Still so close. “I wanna feel you.”  
Mickey sighed, let the breath out, dropping his arms. “God, I _really_ need to feel you.” Mickey’s legs are pressed against the fuckin door, thank Christ. He’d be falling fucking down otherwise. His breath was heavy as Ian’s fingers pried the thick sweater off him. He started to pull his t-shirt, too, but Mickey shook his head, still nervous about the people downstairs. Ian let it loose from his hand, fingers tracing around Mickey’s chest, arms, back, murmuring approvingly. If Mickey was smart, he’d run. HIs legs don’t move. 

His mouth was slack as Ian’s hands slid up against his nipples, mouth hard against his shoulder. “I want,” Mickey gasped, I want--” He swallowed. His hand slid up to the back of Ian’s head, wincing and sighing against the mark Ian was making. 

“Hmm?” Ian mumbled, mouth lifting just a little from his skin. “What is it you want, Mick.” He lifted his head, Mickey watching his mouth. Ian smirks. He knows. He doesn’t make him say it. 

 

“Those fingers go anywhere near that cock I’m gonna break every knuckle in your fuckin hand, all 15 of them.” _Who’s the dramatic one now? Jesus._

Asshole telling him to settle down. Fuck him. He can feel Ian’s smirk on him, just like when they were at the Kash and Grab, with that old guy. What’s with all these old fucks? Just a string of jerkoffs Mickey has to keep punching through to get to him. Sometimes his hand gets so fuckin tired. 

But at least this jerkoff is gone now, so there. 

 

Mickey’s shoulders were pushed back against the door. His head, too. His back bowed out like it was ready to snap, send some arrow from his chest through the ceiling any second. Sweater gone, pants a pool next to him, shirt soft against his skin, his stomach, the hem brushing the place where Ian held him hard by the hips. _Those fingers. Jesus._ Ian on his knees, tongue swirling around the head of Mickey’s dick, dipping to tease the frenulum. _Fuck._ Ian’s head sank deep, his lips slipping against Mickey’s foreskin. He remembered the way Ian had said, years ago now, in his stupid room, tire iron somewhere on the floor, _“Holy. Fuck. Yeah.”_ His breathing hard when he saw Mickey still had his foreskin. The way he slid it back, revealing the shining, blushing head. _“God, I’m gonna make you feel so good. So good. Fuck.”_ Mickey had shoved him up and away from him, almost a punch, eyebrows low, shoving down the fuckin girly sigh that rose in him at the words. _“It’s just a fuckin’ dick, Gallagher. S’not like I had anything to do with that shit.”_

But Ian had been right. He had made him feel so good. 

“Fuck, that feels good,” Mickey whispered, shoulders meeting the door again, his legs shaking. Ian had one of Mickey’s legs flung over his shoulder, mouth against him so hard it makes Mickey feel like he has to stand on his toes. He could hear the lock latch swinging on the door, clicking back and forth. _God._ Ian’s arm under his shirt, scraping a nipple. Mickey hissed. Ian’s fingers creeping up against the collar of his shirt, slipping into his mouth. _Shit._ Mickey’s tongue pointed, sliding firmly against where Ian’s fingers met. Ian groaned. Mickey sucked them in deeper, and deeper. 

Ian’s hand dropped down, hitched Mickey’s leg up higher. Mickey scoffed, “Aint been up there in a while, genius. Need more than that.” Ian pulling back with a chuckle, letting Mickey’s leg drop back down. Mickey shut his eyes, blood tingling as it rushed back to his leg. He could hear Ian rustling for the lube in the top drawer. Ian muttering _Shit, shit. Fuck you, Lip._ under his breath. Mickey’s eyes opened and he saw Ian’s hair, glowing in front of that stupid lamp, which wobbled as Ian shoved one dresser drawer closed and quickly opened another. He digs again. This time triumphant, not hiding the relief as he found the bottle.

MIckey sighed as Ian got back to it. Long hand pumping him once, twice, then holding him up, head bending, tongue thick. He pushed his hip back, yanking on his leg until Mickey slid it up again. Ian rewarded him with a deep bob of the head. A hand curved around his balls, pulling down, thank god. Dipping deeper. Fuck. He wasn’t going to last. Focus. 

Mickey stared up at the ceiling. Fucking posters. Girls. Nah, fuck that shit. His eyes found the table lamp again, where he stood, what, an hour ago? Ian challenging him, trying to make him say words he still couldn’t say. Ian’s eyebrow twitching up, a dare. That fucking face. 

Ian pulled away, lips swollen, fingers gripping his ass hard. “Want you to fuck my face while I finger you open.” 

Mickey’s chest heaved at the words, but when he looks down at Ian, all he sees are little black spots tracing around from the table lamp.  
“Ian--” Mickey begins, but Ian sucks him down again. “Ian, wait.” He gestures with his head sideways, gestures through the door, downstairs. “What if--”

“Won’t.” Ian challenged. “What, you want to stop?” 

Mickey faltered. _No. Never._ “Dunno. ‘M already here, so...” Ian chuckled as he popped the cap and spread the lube on his fingers. Mickey smiled, then swallowed hard, pulled Ian’s lip down with his thumb. He reached for his own cock, hand grabbing onto Ian’s hair, guiding him. Ian gasps, and takes him in. 

But then. Then he does this thing. A different thing. Mickey’s eyes flick to his mouth. Ian’s eyes are closed. But then he took him deep. Fuck. So deep. It’s Ian. Oh my god. Ian’s hands. Ian’s finger teasing him, then slipping in. Mickey pressed his lips to stifle the words that want to fly out. _I’ll do it. I’ll fucking do it. I’ll say it. I’ll say all of it._ Two fingers slipping, Mickey’s hips rocked hard from where they were held against the door. Ian’s breath rushes fast from his nose. The fingers full inside him, twisting a little. Mickey winced, then sighed. Then that curve, that curve, oh god. oh god. Mickey tries so hard to swallow the words. He can’t. He doesn’t want to let go yet. _Jesus._ He nods, the third. Sure. Sure. He knew Ian was waiting for him. His mouth. God. Ian’s head slipped to the side. But he does that thing, again. That different thing. Ian. It’s Ian. It’s Ian’s fingers, the third sliding, Ian’s mouth. Wait. 

The words came out before he could stop them. Act and react. “Wait, wait. Too much. I’m not--” _not ready for that yet, not now,_ he wants to say. 

Ian pulled his fingers out slowly. Mickey winced at the loss. “What’s up?” Ian says. His eyes have lost a little bit of the strange wide stillness, a little soft, head doing that thing he does, flicking to the side, just a little. “Mick?” Ian let his leg down slip to the floor, backed off, fully sitting on the floor, looking up. “What’s--”

 

MIckey looked down, down at his dick, down at Gallagher. His hand reaching to cup himself, the knuckles reading F U C K. “I’m just--”

_I just feel fuckin gay, Mickey wanted to tell him. This makes me just feel fuckin gay all of a sudden. And you’re moving your mouth different. Not a lot, but enough. And I’m not some weak-ass jealous fuck. Can’t make me be one.”_

Mickey opened and closed his mouth. “Just--” 

“Yo, Ian!” Lip’s voice was close. Not close enough that it’s just on the other side of this shitty door, but close like on the stair landing, close enough to prove a point. _Close enough to hear shit? Did he hear any of this shit? Goddammit. He’s so glad he didn’t say any of that jealous little bitch shit._ “Dinner?” 

Ian’s eyes didn’t leave Mickey’s face. “Kay. Be down in a sec.” Mickey scrambled to put his rapidly softening dick in his pants. The lube on his ass smearing against the fabric and back to his skin as he pulls his pants up. He feels--he doesn’t fuckin know. Glad to stop, mad he stopped. Ashamed of wanting, anyway. _That tongue moved differently, though. Ian’s tongue._ Fuck it, Mickey thought. It’ll come. Just not now. Ian reached behind him, plucked Mickey’s sweater off the ground, tossed it, “Hey, Lip? Mickey’s staying.” 

Lip’s voice further away. Bottom of the stairs, probably. Mickey could imagine it, him leaning back over the railing. Shouting up “Huh?” 

Ian’s eyes pressed against Mickey’s. And Mickey didn’t back down. Didn’t look away

Ian’s voice was louder, just slightly, but more certain. “I said Mickey’s staying.” 

 

Really, it’s not the whole “party at the loft” bullshit that gets Mickey. It’s not the fuckin spotlights swinging all over the place, making him dizzy. It’s not the way his eyes keep blinking against the lights, against Ian’s excited face. It’s “What’s wrong with fun?” Because this shit isn’t fun. But there he is, mouthing back to Ian. Ian knows it’s bullshit. Just like he’s cried bullshit on Mickey a billion times, making Mickey run from him, toward him, fists swinging, fingers shy and reaching. Making Mickey come for him, whispering all those things in his ear, things Mickey will never tell another soul as long as he lives. It would sound gay as hell. 

Fuck. But, yeah. Mickey’s gay as hell. He fuckin is. And so is Ian. And Ian’s smirking and trying to shut him up by fuckin’ kissing him. Mickey jerks back with a startled “What the fuck?” He’s never been more scared in his life, _not even then._ He feels that adrenaline rush, so sharp he can’t breathe. Kissing is for tiny rooms, for when Ian’s breath is against his, for when Mickey can see, perfectly, why he feels the way he does. 

He’s never liked people in his space. He feels like punching anyone who comes close. Every time Gallagher got close before, he backed up. He needed to see everything, to make sure no one was about to take a fuckin swing at him. Hated people touching him, holding him, stepping close to him. Even Ian, with all the gay-ass shit they’ve done, has usually had to back off him as soon as they were finished. So just because they had a real gay old heyday the night before doesn’t mean they’re going to start doing this where everyone could see. 

Ian looks around. Mickey can tell he’s impatient. Ian’s always been fucking impatient. He’s always making Mickey run, and run, and run. He’s leaning closer to Mickey, he can tell. Always pushing it. Just scraping his fingers against that boundary, over and over, with everything. 

His eyebrow cocks as Mickey takes it all in, around him, where they are. What’s happening around them. Mickey looks at Ian. The lights aren’t bugging him. He sees Ian, sees him. God, he’s just...he’s just…

He’s moving toward him before he knows it, like anything he fucking does, ever. And his hand is on his face, and their arms remember what to do. Ian swipes so clean and sweet and deep into his mouth, and Mickey’s hand slips down his face, thumb brushing against Ian’s chin, wanting to hold it the way Ian held his. He wants to say _I’m ready, I’m ready._ When they break apart, Ian is grinning so hard, his eyes bright as lights, so bright, and Mickey can’t look away, never again. _I’m ready, I’m ready._ Mickey just says, “Take me somewhere. Now. Just anywhere, I don’t give a fuck.” _I’m ready, I’m ready_ and then his hands are reaching for him again, and again, and again under those lights that sway and pulse, colors changing and pushing hard against everything his open eyes can see.


End file.
